


Crack in the Ice

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cunnilingus, Cutting, Dirty Talk, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Femslash, Frottage, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Multi, Self-Harm, Threesome - F/F/F, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John comfort Mycroft when trouble strikes close to home. Well, John provides some comfort; Sherlock does a lot of making rude comments and fiddling with her mobile. All genderswapped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Other Shoe Dropping

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed or Britpicked.
> 
> This fic is an open love letter to my favorite Sherlock fanfic authors & their works. Homage abounds in each chapter. To Lanning, EventHorizon, pendrecarc, breathedout, corpsereviver2, philalethia, AtlinMerrick, entanglednow, SailorChibi, and peevee and ALL the lovely ficcers out there who entertain and expand this universe with their creativity, Thank You, Happy New Year, and Happy Season 3, from a long-time lurker, but voracious consumer (because it's really more carnal than simply reading) of fanfic like me.

John held her breath and waited for the other shoe to drop. Whether it was Sherlock’s black boot or Mycroft’s charcoal pump, she didn’t care. But it wasn’t going to be her brown loafer, twice re-soled and polished within an inch of its life. 

Something had happened.

Two pairs of Holmes eyes were locked for a blink-and-you’d-miss-it instant. But John had learned not to make a habit of blinking. Not around these two. So she waited.

Nothing happened. 

Mycroft picked up precisely where she had left off, before a ringing telephone had interrupted the briefing of Sherlock and John on a new case. It wasn’t, John noted, the telephone on Mycroft’s well-appointed desk in her well-appointed office, where they were sitting. And it wasn’t her sleek smartphone, used to start wars and snarl traffic and upset foreign elections. It was a tiny mobile fished out of her inside suit jacket pocket. She had murmured a polite “Excuse me”, stood, and turned her back to them.

John had shot a glance at Sherlock, but she had just rolled her eyes, sighed loudly, then huffed petulantly. Mycroft turned back and sat down at her desk. And then there was the Look. And, John knew, it meant Something.

“So a copy of missile plans, we believe, were stolen. They are on a memory stick…”

“Wait,” John said. “Will someone tell the one woman in the room who ISN’T a mind-reader, what just happened?” She looked from Sherlock to Mycroft. The question hung in the air.

“Mycroft’s husband has left her.” 

John’s first reaction was a high-pitched, startled laugh, which she clumsily tried to morph into a rough cough. 

Sherlock looked down at her nails, making a theatrical inspection of her manicure, and smirked.

“Not caring isn’t an advantage either, is it, Sister dear? Not when business contracts can be broken as easily as hearts.”

“Not good, Sherlock,” John said. “Bloody hell, Mycroft. He left you? For…?” 

“Masseuse, was it?” Sherlock purred.

“Physiotherapist.” 

“Whore.”

“Mistress.”

Sherlock’s eyes searched her sister’s face, then narrowed. She spoke hesitantly, disbelievingly. 

“Baby. Mama.”

When John stopped choking on her own saliva, she croaked, “Ho-ly Mary.”


	2. Conversation. Good Lord. John wanted to talk.

John started,“Mycroft, I am so sorry…” 

Mycroft fixed her with cold gaze. 

“But, what are you going to _do_?” John didn’t think Mycroft was going to reply, but after a quiet shuffle of papers on her desk and click of a pen, she answered.

“I’m not without… _resources_.” 

“Are you going to have him ‘relocated’ to Antarctica or will his bits be fished out of the Thames?”

“Bor-ing,” Sherlock chirped.

“Dr. Watson, I’m afraid that I have an 11:15 so, moving on. Sherlock, this missile program is of utmost importance to national security…” John looked to Sherlock, but she was, apparently, shopping for shoes on her mobile.

John gave up. She pretended to take notes on the case, but really she was churning Mycroft’s news over and over in her mind. Some of the words filtered through, and she scribbled them on her pad. 

_“…Bruce Partington Program…”_

Sherlock flexed her foot. John’s eyes followed the zipper on the black leather boot from sole to ankle to knee where it met a sliver of black stocking. _Sweet Mother of God._ John knew they were the second pair that Sherlock had put on that morning. John had stood at the bathroom sink, brushing her teeth, watching in the mirror as behind her, bedroom door wide, Sherlock had rolled the dark silk over her creamy white legs.

_“…legwork…”_

And then a clink of toothbrush on porcelain later, John was kneeling on the floor between Sherlock’s legs, running her hands up and down the silk, from toe to thigh and back, feeling Sherlock’s skin and muscle and bones and pulse beneath the fabric. Her caresses quickened as Sherlock’s self-satisfied humming turned to moans, urgent and soft.

_“…Andrew West. Westy to his friends…”_

And then she was hoisting a black leg over her good shoulder, bowing to brush her cheek against Sherlock’s inner thigh. A silken heel rubbed up her back, pushing her loose vest up. And then John just had to, had to, had to extend Sherlock’s leg so she could lick at the flesh behind her knee. Sherlock whimpered.

_“…would go a long way to improving relations among the Allies…”_

And that’s how the first pair of stockings had ended up in the rubbish bin, stained with streaks of toothpaste and a gaping tear at the crotch.

“Don’t make me order you.” Mycroft stood.

“I’d like to see you try.” Sherlock glared at her, still slumped in the chair like a sullen teenager.

“But, Mycroft, the man you were living with for a dozen…”

“Fifteen,” Sherlock corrected, now disinterestedly watching a Youtube video of a monkey riding a pig.

“…. _fifteen years_ , decides to trade you in for a younger model and you are…okay…with that?”

Like a switch being flipped, Sherlock was unfolded, up and out the door, Belstaff swishing, with a “Tedious. Laterz!” 

John knew she should let it go. But she turned back at the doorway and said, “Listen, why don’t you…”

“Dr. Watson! Your pity is equal parts nauseating and unwarranted, I assure you! Good. Day.”

And then John finally saw her. Maybe for the first time that morning, maybe for the first time ever. Smart. Her hair was smart, coiffed and fixed in elegant, rich chestnut rolls. Her dark suit was smart, finely tailored and draping her athletic figure in femininity. Her jewelry was smart, expensive but understated. Her shoes, smart. Her make-up, smart. Here was the smartest woman that John knew—and yes, she knew that Mycroft could beat Sherlock at her own game if pressed—and yet she’d fallen into the oldest, dumbest muddle in the world. 

What she needed was a friend. And for as much as she talked about Sherlock’s lack of friends, John had never seen anyone with Mycroft, save her husband, that could even remotely be called as such. Superiors, colleagues, associates, useful acquaintances, minions, lackeys, enemies, archenemies and a sister. So she pointed her last arrow at the softest, most vulnerable underbelly of the beast.

“So you didn’t…see it coming?”

Mycroft’s expression froze in a brittle smile. CCTV cameras, intelligence briefings from every crack and crevice of the globe, and, seemingly, she hadn’t realized that a quiet indiscretion had turned into something else entirely.

They stayed suspended like that for what seemed like an eternity to John, but was probably only a few seconds. Then in the periphery of her vision, a dark red stigmata bloomed. Not taking her eyes from Mycroft’s face, she took a handkerchief from her back pocket and pressed hard on Mycroft’s left palm. She closed Mycroft’s fingers tightly around the cloth and took the letter opener from her right hand. John leaned in and whispered softly.

“Let’s have dinner.” 

Mycroft recovered, ironing her face into cool disinterest, “Why on earth would I…?”

And John knew she had her.

Because, despite the tone of voice, the answer wasn’t “Sorry, off to depose a South American dictator!” or “Gee, would love to but there’s this pesky won to devalue…” or even “No.” She wanted a reason. And John would give her, on a fucking platter, a top Holmesian reasons to do anything.

“Sherlock will be _furious_.”

“7:30”

“Fine. I’ll meet you…”

Mycroft flashed a completely insincere smile and closed the door. “Good day, Dr. Watson.” 

By the time John emerged outside, Sherlock was, of course, nowhere to be found. She headed toward the nearest tube station. 

**Lestrade has a 6. Meet me at the Lucky Cat. Address to follow. SH**  
 **What about the case for your sister? JW**  
 **It’s a 2 at best. A 1 given Mycroft’s involvement. Not worth my time. SH**  
 **Sherlock. She could use a little support right now. How about cut her some slack? JW**  
 **Fine. You interview Andrew West’s fiancée. SH**  
 **And? JW**  
 **And I’ll expect thorough and wicked compensation tonight for my conciliatory mood. SH**  
 **Sure, just add said compensation to my tab. After a new pair of stockings. JW**  
 **John. SH**

Whoever said that modern technology was cold had never gotten a text like that from Sherlock Holmes. John felt a blush rise and her heartbeat quicken.

****

**Oh, and do have the duck tonight. It’s delightful. SH**

_Fuck._

The Holmesian omniscience was maddening. And it sometimes reduced the warrior in her to a schoolgirl.

**Are you angry? JW  
Furious, John. Thorough. Wicked. SH**

John was nearing the fiancée’s flat when her phone beeped again. 

**Not a 6! An 8.5! They found a bucket of thumbs, John. Thumbs! Told you that experiment would be valuable. SH**

John chuckled at Sherlock’s glee, turned off her phone, and knocked at the door. 

John hadn’t expected to come up with much, but the fiancée interview led to a search of Andrew West’s flat and then to train tracks and thoughts of strawberry jam. And then some bloke stupidly brought a bicycle to a gun fight. And then there was chasing. She loved chases! So by the time she had returned to Baker Street, showered and dressed, a menacing shark of a car had stealthily pulled up downstairs. 

John considered where Mycroft might be taking her. She didn’t know. Someplace quiet where they could talk, she supposed. But she knew her game plan. She would just listen. Mycroft might want to vent her anger at her husband and the other woman. She might want to wax nostalgic about the good ol’ days. She might want to—but John doubted this—cry. Or get drunk and make jokes about the size of his cock. John didn’t know this either, but it didn't matter. She would listen. And she would show Mycroft that someone cared, no matter what. All set. 

But when she stepped out of the car, a grenade hit the plan. 

What an absolute fucking bitch.

No, it wasn’t a pub or a café or a restaurant. Not a hideaway Moroccan joint. 

It was Mycroft fucking Holmes’ club. The Diogenes Club. WHERE YOU WEREN’T ALLOWED TO TALK! What an absolute, motherfucking cunt of a move. Of course, she would know that John wanted to talk, so she took her to the one place in London where you’d get throw out on your arse if you so much as made a peep. 

John was seething when she walked up the steps. Seething when she showed her identification to the man at the entrance. Seething when she was ushered through the first room full of white-haired men, reading newspapers and nodding off in armchairs, gathering dust and cobwebs like mounted owls or medals of valor from forgotten wars. Everything reeked of patriarchy and masculine privilege. It made her itch. How Mycroft had become a member of such a club was a mystery. Why she wanted to be one was an even greater one. By the time John finally made it to a private dining room and Mycroft had handed her a short, stout glass of amber liquid on ice, she was wrestling with a psychotic urge to throw buckets of menstrual blood everywhere. _Jesus Christ._

Silence itself didn’t bother her. True to her introduction, Sherlock did go days without talking. So John flashed her own fake smile and sat down. Their waiter was a first prize winner in a Rumpole of the Bailey look-alike contest. John downed her drink and motioned for ol’ Rumpole to keep ‘em coming. 

The duck was very good. 

John occasionally caught Mycroft’s glance through the meal, but her placid, diplomatic, non-expression never changed. By the time, Rumpole had brought the tiramisu— _Queen of Mercies, she loved ladyfingers_ —John had had enough. The cream on her spoon reminded her of Sherlock’s legs and, by extension, her bucket of thumbs. And she missed them both. She pushed back from the table and was about to declare mission aborted when Mycroft spoke. 

“Dr. Watson, I must inform you that this particular room is the one place in the Diogenes Club where quiet conversation is permitted.” 

What an absolute bitch. 

“I came here to be your friend, but all you want is a mouse by the tail for fun. Waste of my time.”

“You would have me dissolve into histrionics, take you into my confidence, and consider the advice of a damaged, delusional sycophant to my sister as sagacious direction. What part of that scenario seems plausible?”

A different John would’ve punched her in the face and walked out. But time in Sherlock’s life and bed had taught her that the cruelest taunts came right before the loveliest of breaches and concessions and sometimes, complete surrenders. So she advanced.

“You married him, Mycroft. Shared your life with him. And now you’ve got to go home to that cold, empty flat while he picks out nursery colours with her. None of that hurts? You’re not angry or sad or anything? I don’t believe it. Stiff upper lip, carry on, and bollocks. You and Sherlock want the world to believe you’ve no heart, but I’ve seen hers. You must have one, too. And it’s breaking. Somewhere in there.” She made a vague gesture toward Mycroft’s chest. 

“And who the fuck is queuing up to say they’re sorry and buy you a pint and listen?! Your PA? Your _driver_? Ol’ Rumpole here, or maybe the museum exhibits napping in the front room?”

John paused and then went all-in, putting all her chips on two words.

“I care.”

And then Mycroft broke.

“WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME _DO_?!”

Ol’ Rumpole was quicker and stronger than he looked because John and Mycroft were unceremoniously being booted out the back entrance of the club before John had a chance to counter, “What do you _want_ to do?”

“I have no idea.”

“Hmmm. I have one.”

And that led to John and Mycroft running down the street, away from the egg-splattered front door of certain physiotherapist.

And, of course, that led John to remember running with Sherlock, the night she left her cane at Angelo’s. The adrenaline and the danger and the rightness of it all. She was in that moment, though she hardly understood it at the time, Lazarus, unbound and alive again. And reliving it, even with Mycroft, was rather nice.

They ended up at the front of Mycroft’s door.

“Utterly pointless,” panted Mycroft, but John caught a glimpse of a half-smile. A real one. 

“We’re not going to get in trouble, are we?” 

“Sector-specific outages of CCTV coverage do happen, on occasion. For no apparent reason.”

“Ta”

But then that stupid mobile rung. _Don’t answer it. Don’t answer it._

But, of course, Mycroft answered it. And all the cheer and lightness of the moment evaporated. 

And then they were seated on Mycroft's sofa, drinking tea that John had made.

“Despite what Sherlock says, there was a certain… _fondness_ …in the beginning. But mostly I was very ambitious and felt like I needed the façade of ordinary to distract from the ruthlessness. Today it wouldn’t matter, but then, I thought it did, and once we settled into a routine, well…”

Mycroft stood up and walked toward the fireplace. “But, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough, and I didn’t see it. I DIDN’T _SEE_ THAT IT WASN’T _ENOUGH_!” With a dragon-like screech, Mycroft threw the cup into the mirror above the fireplace, shattering it, raining shards on the floor.

Instantly, John was with her, kneeling, grabbing both her hands and shaking them hard so she dropped the broken pieces she was clutching. She was inspecting her bleeding hands and draping her jacket around Mycroft’s trembling arms. 

_You’re enough. You’re enough. You’re so much more than enough._ It was a litany, a rosary prayer, a mantram. 

And then suddenly John realized that she was saying it out loud.

And then Mycroft’s lips came crashing on hers and they were kissing and John was leaning her back, cradling her head in her hands. _You’re enough. You’re enough. You’re so much more than enough._ John shifted to one forearm, using the other to stroke Mycroft’s hair. Then she took a very deep breath. 

And as the air moved through her nose and inflated her lungs, her olfactory sense registered what her others senses had not: the presence of her beloved. 

John quickly turned her head to see a black heel grinding shards into dust and the hem of the Belstaff. 

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from 26 Pieces by Lanning. It is, by far, my favorite fanfic. I want to court it and woo it and move to a place where I can legally marry it. I want to register for a hideously conservative china pattern with it. That's how much I love it. I also included shout-outs to the lovely For Great Justice by pendrecarc and When We Assume by EventHorizon, which I adore like that favorite cousin you only see at Christmas whose life is so much more interesting than yours.


	3. Two Layers of Stubborn Chiffon

_Fuck._

John closed her eyes. 

“Sherlock…” she started, but she didn’t really know what to say after that. She was still atop Mycroft, with her weight on her left forearm. 

_Whoosh! Thwack!_

Her right shoulder erupted in pain. 

_Jesus Christ! She brought the riding crop!_

“Sherlock! Don’t hurt her!” She cocooned Mycroft’s head. 

_Whoosh! Thwack!_

_Jesus, it hurt._

“Get. Up.”

John scrambled to her feet. And, Lord, Sherlock _was_ Fury. Magnificent and terrifying. They danced around the room; Sherlock advancing and John retreating, with Sherlock hitting every breakable object in her path with the riding crop. An expensive-looking vase, a statue that was probably a gift from a grateful head of state, a tea mug, all went crashing to the floor as they did their paso doble around the room. 

“Sherlock! Stop! This is juvenile!”

_Crash!_

“Says the woman covered in…raw egg. And my sister’s saliva!” 

_Well, she had a point there._

_Crash!_

“Okay, okay. The eggs were a prank. Something harmless to blow off steam. And the rest of it…well…I don’t know.”

_Crash!_

“I will fillet you both!”

“I wanted to help her, to show her that she wasn’t alone. She’s hurting, Sherlock, she really is!”

“Mycroft doesn’t hurt. It’s a game, a chess move!” 

“Sherlock, this is her blood; of course, she hurting!” John held out her stained hands. “She hurts herself! But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Not the strongest of offense, but John was getting tired of feeling like stalked prey.

“Oh, and the Good Doctor just had to lend a hand!” Sherlock sneered. 

And that was it. John had officially had it. She found her battlefield voice and yelled, 

“LOOK! AT! HER!” 

Sherlock turned her head. Mycroft was still on the floor in the middle of the wreckage, curled on her side. Bloodied hands held against her chest, and there were angry bleeding scratches on one cheek. Her eyes were open but unfocused and she was trembling as when she had first fallen to her knees. 

And for the many, many years that they would spend together, John never asked—and Sherlock never offered—what she had seen that night. John suspected it harkened back to a scene in the sisters’ childhood, long since locked away in Sherlock’s Mind Palace. A scene where perhaps the roles were reversed, and it was the younger Holmes girl bloodied and broken. And maybe, just maybe, she had been shown a little mercy. Because the next thing that was said was,

“Clean her up.”

“Mycroft, let’s get you upstairs.” Mycroft didn’t say anything, but offered no resistance as John pulled her by her arms. So then John was hoisting Mycroft on her good shoulder, then hissing and buckling her knees in pain as it was _not_ her good shoulder anymore because Sherlock had hit it twice with the riding crop. And she was carrying Mycroft up the stairs.

“Are you going to help?”

“Uh… _No._ ” Sherlock climbed the stairs behind her, texting along the way.

Then John was drawing a bath and cleaning Mycroft’s hands and face, gently pulling pieces of mirror and cup out of her hair with tweezers. All the time, Sherlock was perched on edge of the bathtub, making no effort to intervene in the proceedings, save handing first aid supplies to John.

John stripped Mycroft of her clothes. Sherlock shifted to sit on the counter, still glued to her mobile.  
“In the water, my dear. You’ll be back online soon.” John carefully washed and rinsed Mycroft’s hair. 

“Alright. Out you go.” John dried Mycroft’s skin and wrapped her in a robe that Sherlock proffered. John applied antiseptic ointment to Mycroft’s hands and bandaged them. Mycroft had remained silent through the whole process, compliant with John’s ministrations, but not an active participant. Most of the time, her eyes were closed. She opened them now.

“I can see why you keep her around, Sherlock. The good doctor is not without her…charm.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft was facing the mirror with John at her back and Sherlock in the corner. And then suddenly, Sherlock was squeezing John’s right shoulder, digging her fingers in the welts. While John was blinded with pain, Sherlock quickly jabbed Mycroft in her left shoulder, through the fabric of the robe. 

“Sherl…” and Mycroft crumpled to the floor.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! What _was_ that?” 

“Oh, just something an old girlfriend showed me once. She used it on a lot of her friends.” 

“Wait a minute…Irene.” John didn’t even bother hiding her jealousy.

“John, I caught you _kissing my sister_.”

“What did you give her?”

“Tranquilizer. She’ll be out for a few hours. We just need to make sure she doesn’t drown in her own vomit. Let’s move her to the bed.” John grabbed under Mycroft’s arms, and Sherlock took her ankles, and they carried her to the adjoining bedroom. John pulled back the covers and arranged Mycroft’s legs underneath then. 

“You drugged her! To what possible end, Sherlock?”

“There are some things that my sister needn’t be privy to.” Sherlock pulled John close and dropped her voice. 

“I’ve decided that fucking you in my sister’s bed is not without its… _charm_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from 'How the mouth changes its shape' by breathedout. I don’t know if you can write genderswapped Sherlock without nodding to this wonderful story. It offers so many gorgeous images and pithy back-and-forth between the girls.


	4. The failure of the European airline industry

Sherlock circled the bed and sat on the far side, reaching for John. John allowed herself to be pulled into a warm embrace. It was cliché; it was trite; but, God, it felt like coming home. And then Sherlock’s lips were crushing hers, possessively, owning and claiming. The mood soon turned more affectionate than lust-driven, however, as John playfully swiped at Sherlock’s bottom lip with her tongue and gently nipped it between her teeth. She sighed when Sherlock planted a peck on her cheek and nuzzled into her neck.

“God, I missed you.”

“You turned off your mobile.”

“Fuck, I did, didn’t I? Before talking to West’s fiancée. And never switched it back on again. Shit. I thought that you were just engrossed in the new case, and that’s why you hadn’t texted. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t realize I wasn’t reachable. “

“Not exactly unreachable.”

“You had some of your homeless network spy on me? Ha!”

“Mostly, but I did check on you at the train tracks. I knew you’d get there eventually.”

“So happy to not disappoint,” and she flashed the detective a goofy grin. And then they were snogging like adolescents, with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses and furtive touches on top of clothing. And then Sherlock was pushing John’s jumper up and off and tossing it on the floor. Sherlock leaned to fish something out of the pocket of the Belstaff, which had ended up hung on the bedpost at some point.

“And about the thing with Mycroft…” John felt a sharp coolness on her right shoulder. Sherlock patted gel on the welts and blew gently.

Sherlock stopped and let out an exasperated sigh. “John, I realized a long time ago that you have the most misguided and ludicrous sense of chivalry. You will shoot a cabbie for me, a stranger, the day after our first meeting. You will fuck my sister to comfort her for a loss _that she does not mourn_. Really.”

“Sherlock, after fifteen years, it’s going to sting the pride a little bit. But I know she’s not going to be weeping buckets and wearing black. That’s not the point. The point is with all her streams of data and information and those all-seeing eyes everywhere, she had a huge blind spot to what was happened under her own roof. And, I think, that scares her. Sort of like another proper genius not realizing that a certain someone, right under _her_ roof, was crazy about her, _in that way_.”

“Your pop psychology is better discussed with Mrs. Hudson over biscuits. Now let me fuck you.”

“Sherlock, this isn’t…” John looked nervously at Mycroft’s sleeping figure. 

“Close your eyes.” Sherlock settled John snugly against her, face-to-face with John straddling her, and their hips aligned. And John gave herself over to Sherlock’s low whispers. 

“This morning…” Sherlock trailed soft, wet kisses from behind John’s ear, down her neck, to her collarbone. John began to grind her pelvis into Sherlock’s in slow, almost lazy, circles.

“I was trying to drive you mad,” said Sherlock as she licked at John’s left shoulder, tracing and retracing the hardened ridges and whorls with her tongue. Committing the scar to memory anew. 

“Mission accomplished. You felt so fucking _good_.” John didn’t object as Sherlock pushed the straps of her vest down, releasing John’s arms, and rolled the white cotton sports bra over her head. Then Sherlock delicately replaced the vest on John’s shoulders. John wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck and buried her fingers in the dark curls and her nose in her neck.

“And later in Mycroft’s office…”

“You were so bored.”

“Hmmm. I was tempted to crawl on Mycroft’s hideous desk and show her just how _companionable_ you can be.” Sherlock ran her hands down John’s back, squeezing her buttocks, and coming around front to unbutton her jeans. She curled her arms around John’s waist and leaned into her.

“Would you, John, have shown her how you open me up with your tongue? How about if I were wearing the other stockings, with the suspenders, and the boots…”

“No knickers.” John was grinding harder. 

“Of course not. Just spread my legs and invited you to taste. Right there and then. On top of the files and papers and that absurd gold pen. What would you do, John?“

“Tongue-fuck you ‘til you screamed. Licked and sucked. _Jesus Christ_.” John flicked at the bounding pulse in Sherlock’s neck while Sherlock brushed John’s nipple through fabric, feeling the tissue swell and harden. 

“ _Oh_.”

“What if Mycroft had called security, would you have stopped?” Sherlock unzipped John’s jeans and slipped her hands inside, grabbing her buttocks, and guiding her hips.

“Not for an invading army. Not for a wandering horde.” With one hand, John pulled Sherlock’s head back by her hair, exposing her neck. She licked and kissed and bit down to the V of Sherlock’s blouse. With the other hand, she thumbed the swell of Sherlock’s breast.

“Mmm-hmmm. And what if I had turned around. Right there on the desk. On all fours. Right in front of my sister. A few doors down from who-knows- what visiting foreign dignitaries or parliamentary machinations. What would you do, John?”

“Hike that skirt up. Bite both of your gorgeous cheeks. And service you like a Queen.” 

And with that, Sherlock suddenly release John’s arse, yanked the front of the vest down and clamped her mouth of John’s nipple, sucking hard. John cried out. Firmly anchoring her mouth to John, Sherlock unzipped her own skirt and pulled it down off her hips. Then she pushed John’s jeans and pants down as far as their positions would allow. The grinding resumed, now hard thrusts. At the contact of skin and pubic hair and hip bones, John felt herself beginning to unravel.

“You’d fuck my arsehole with your tongue? Filthy girl.”

“Willingly, wantonly. Fingers in that dripping cunt, too. I’d have spread those legs wide open. I want to be in you, Sherlock. I need to be under you. Surrounded by your flesh and scent.”

“I’d have ridden your tongue and fingers shamelessly. John.” Sherlock released John’s nipple and unbuttoned the top two buttons on her blouse. She pulled it aside, exposing the left side of her neck and collarbone completely. John immediately licked a spot at the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder.

The warm sweetness was building in John, but release was just around the corner, just out of reach. She began pushing into Sherlock frantically , seeking more and more friction. She mewled in frustration.

If John had opened her eyes, she would have recognized Sherlock’s expression. Sure, the detective’s skin was flush, pulse bounding, and respirations elevated, but the look on her face was no Mills & Boon hero (or heroine for that matter). It was the look Sherlock used for her most exacting and demanding experiments. The ones that required the utmost precision but held the greatest promise of insight.

“Sherlock, he-“

Before John had finished the word, Sherlock’s hand was between them, cupped just-so and rubbing in a delicious up-and-down motion. And Sherlock whispered.

“Fuck. Me. _Please_.”

And that was it. John was biting Sherlock’s neck and squeezing her hand between her thighs. A second, softer, almost sweeter wave hit and John was begging.

“Don’t move, don’t move, not yet.”

Sherlock held John closer and said huskily, “Silly girl. I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from the classic 'Voice Controlled' by corpsereviver2. No one can take you from zero to John 11:35-I-need-a-cigarette-Wait-I-don't-smoke in less than 1000 words than this author. Required reading for anyone who's a student of the dirty talk kink. You know who you are. Also, an oblique, but intentional, nod to 'At the Bottom of the Pool' by philalethia, a really wonderful genderswapped Sherlock and John.


	5. Let's walk this highwire and see if we keep our balance.

By the time John had returned to her senses and put herself to rights, Sherlock was propped up at the head of the bed, with legs extended. She looked quite at ease, with a ghost of a smile at her lips. Not at all disturbed at the drugged, sleeping form of her sister parallel to her. 

John took a deep breath. Sherlock was really so very, very lovely. Rumpled and flush as she was now, with all the sharp angles and biting remoteness smoothed and plumped and warmed. _Okay, backwards in high heels, here we go_. She took off her jeans and socks and picked up the tube of gel that Sherlock had dropped beside the bed.

“Well, I think we have ‘wicked’ covered,” said John, nodding to the lump of Mycroft. “Let’s see about ‘thorough.’ How about I start at this end and work my way up.” She unzipped Sherlock’s boots. 

_Thunk, thunk._ The boots hit the floor.

John squeezed some gel in her hands and rubbed it generously on Sherlock’s foot. She began kneading the bottom of the foot, examining it carefully, almost clinically. “You shove your feet in these torture devices just to look sexy. It’s worse than the coat, which at least serves the purpose of keeping you warm.” 

“Maybe I do it so that you will a-ah-ah-ah-ttend to me, Doctor,” Sherlock countered as John explored a sensitive spot in her arch.

“Maybe.” John smiled.

“Do you ever think…” John pressed into the center of Sherlock’s heel with her thumbs and then squeezed the edges of it hard.

“Yes. Almost always. There. Right there. Do that. That!”

“Hush, Sherlock! Let. Me. Finish.” John punctuated each word by running both thumbs in deep trenches from Sherlock’s arch to the ball of her foot over and over again. Sherlock groaned and fell back against the pillows, “Don’t stop.”

“Why on earth would I stop?” laughed John. She asked again, “Seriously, do you ever think about what would have happened if I hadn’t gone to Bart’s that day? If we’d never met. Where we’d be right now. How our lives would be different.” John curled and flexed Sherlock’s toes with her fingers.

“It wouldn’t have mattered, John. We would have found each other.”

“You can’t know that, Sherlock.” John continued on the other foot.

“I do know. Airport, homeless shelter, sex shop, hanging upside down from a tree. It wouldn’t have mattered. I would have been _curious_ because you are an intriguing mix of ordinary and extraordinary. And that’s all it would have taken. The rest would have followed.”

“Perhaps.” John finished and planted two chaste kisses on the arch of each foot. Then, as she had that morning, she ran her hands up Sherlock’s legs, this time, massaging calves and thighs as she went. 

“I’m not even going to ask what happened to the stockings this time.” John’s hands traveled up and under Sherlock’s skirt, stroking bare flesh. “Oh, you naughty girl. No knickers?”

“Mmmm. _John_.” 

John turned Sherlock and pushed her skirt roughly up on one side, straining seams. She bit the soft flesh of Sherlock’s buttocks and then soothed the spot with wide, wet swathes of her tongue. “Beautiful,” she murmured into the velvety skin. John turned Sherlock back and straddled her. 

“This.” John ran her left hand along Sherlock’s inner thigh and under the front of the skirt. The fabric was bunched at the waist and pulled taut by Sherlock’s open thighs. John lightly traced every ridge, cleft, and crest with her thumb, finding her moistness and barely brushing inside. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” John crooned.

“Stop teasing!” Sherlock was panting now. Her hips were lifting slightly off the bed, chasing John’s fingers.

“Hell, no,” said John. Her left hand continued its play while the right deftly opened the remaining buttons on Sherlock’s blouse. “You waltz into my world, with your riding crop and your come-get-me-boots and your no knickers. Looking like a malaria dream; feeling like heaven; smelling like a crusade. I’m going to take my fucking time.” John twisted her hand and, without preamble, pushed in hard with her index finger. Sherlock arched off the bed and then openly whimpered as John suddenly removed her hand entirely.

“John?” Sherlock raised her head. John used both hands to open the front clasp on Sherlock’s bra. She rubbed circles, outlining and then cupping Sherlock’s breasts. “What does a crusade smell like?” 

“Like a lost cause I want to sign up for and die for, without ever having realized.” Then, John latched on to Sherlock’s nipple, sucking hard, then biting, then leisurely lapping. She turned her attention to the other breast, flicking the nipple with her tongue.

“How about we take the _express_ boat to Jerusalem? Ouch!” Sharp teeth found her side.

“Sass will result in delays.”

“John, I _need_ you.” 

And then bra, blouse, and skirt were scattered on the floor. There was more kissing, heated, wet, open-mouthed. John licked the valley between Sherlock’s breasts, bestowing quick forget-you-not nips on each areole. She moved down Sherlock’s body and sucked at the skin below her navel. 

John could smell her lovely sex, and it drove her crazy. 

“John. _Please_.” Sherlock’s voice was breaking. She was splayed pornographically with legs open and knees bent, pushing up against John.

“Please, what?”

“Please, _fuck me_.”

“How?”

“With your tongue, suck at my clit, just a little bit, then with your tongue”

“Ride me.”

“ _God, yes_.”

With practice precision, they inched to the edge of the bed and then flipped the other way. John moved further down. She tamed Sherlock’s pubic hair with one hand and began sucking eagerly at her clit. She was surrounded by Sherlock, her heat and smell and the weight of her flesh, listening to her muffled cries. It was a surreal world of only Sherlock. And then she had to, had to, had to taste her. To put her tongue inside her. And Sherlock moved her hips back and forth and fucked herself on John’s tongue for a short eternity, until she moaned John’s name and collapsed on top of her. _Ooof_.

They turned on their sides. John moved up and slowly wiped her face on Sherlock’s belly. She wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s waist and just held on. The detective carded her fingers through John’s hair and hummed one of her violin pieces.

The chill of the room reached John’s senses. She pulled at the duvet and sheets, getting herself and Sherlock situated underneath them. 

“So, tell me about the thumbs.” John closed her eyes, curling up beside Sherlock and resting her head in the crook of Sherlock’s arm. 

And somewhere between Sherlock’s third brilliant deduction and Anderson’s second inane comment, John fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter comes from ‘Whipping Boy’ by AtlinMerrick. There is also a blatant air-kiss to her ‘The Day They Met’. The second best thing about AtlinMerrick is the support she gives authors and would-be authors in the fandom. Not lacy, frilly, demi-cup support that she probably thinks would look swell with Sherlock’s best knickers. It is tireless, industrial beige, 18-hour support like Jane Russell used to wear. The very best thing about AtlinMerrick, however, is that she is one of those authors that—with clever writing and genuine emotion—is able to make her kink, your kink. I’ve read a lot of stuff I wouldn’t normally because her name is attached. Because I know that no matter what she has Sherlock & John put in each other or on each other, she LOVES those boys. And it shows.


	6. Some sort of unclaimed foreign country

John was running at full speed. Running until her lungs burned and her four legs ached and her heart beat a pounding rhythm in her ears. Whether she was running toward something or away from it, she wasn’t sure. An opal moon was lighting her way. She leapt over craggy rocks and across desert sand. Then, the dry air turned moist, and she was in a dense forest, bedded with pine needles and moss. She stopped, threw her head back, and howled. She heard a faint answering howl in the distance and started again. Running, running, running. 

She stopped again and lifted her nose. 

_Home!_

_Home, home home!_

She ran toward the scent. Shadows on the horizon grew larger. She saw them, one lanky wolf with black curly fur, and another larger, stockier wolf with matted chestnut brown hair tinged with grey. She ran at them, yipping happily. They circled each other, sniffing, and then, with a bark, the larger wolf led them down an embankment to a shallow stream. They drank deeply and played in the water, splashing with their tails. They jumped and wrestled and chased each other until all were out of breath. John shivered in the cool night air, feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable. The two wolves curled around her, wrapping her in their fur and mingled scents. Her tail thumped the earth contentedly, and she dozed. 

John woke slowly as a warmth spread through her. She was still nested in black and dark brown fur. Two snouts were nuzzling and licking at her from both sides, making their way down her body. The warmth grew, threatening to inflame her, but when the two tongues met at the wet entrance between her legs, growls rang out.

The sudden cold made her open her eyes and lift her head. The two wolves were pacing on either side of her, snarling at each other. The black one lunged quickly with bared teeth, barking violently. The brown one stood her ground, deflecting the assault with a twist of the head, rising up on back paws to push the other down. The brown one advanced, forming a tent with her body over John’s prone figure. She let out a menacing roar that did not broker challenge. The black one gave a mournful yowl and retreated with ears flattened and disappeared.

John stared into the dark brown eyes of the victor, looming over her. Then the wolf said,

“Dr. Watson.”

_Jesus Christ._

John opened her eyes to see Mycroft looking intently at her. She was naked. Mycroft was naked. She was on her back in a bed with Mycroft who was, not actually touching her, but somehow _over_ her. She schooled her features into the expression she wore at the clinic, the one used to reassure patients that whatever they were about to tell the good doctor was not unusual _at all_.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Allow me.” There was an oh-so-slight interrogative lilt at the end of the statement.

“Sure.” She smiled and threw her head back and howled.

It was a pity that it was still night and that the room was draped in shadows because John would’ve liked to see Mycroft’s face when she laughed. She felt it, though. Mycroft covered John’s body with hers, and the vibrations rippled through her body.

They were a tangle of limbs. Lips and tongues and teeth on shoulders and necks and bellies. It was nice. John offered her hand, and Mycroft was guiding it inside her, teaching her silently. In time, John was thrusting her fingers roughly and curling them, with thumb making subtle circles around Mycroft’s clit. A fine sheen of sweat broke out across Mycroft’s body, and she came with a soft grunt. Without pause, Mycroft was between John’s legs, licking her. John let out a deep groan; she immediately put her hand in her wrist in her mouth. Mycroft tore it away.

“Don’t. I want to hear you.”

“ _Oh_ ,” she sighed and grabbed at the sheets. She arched her chest off the bed, rocking her hips slightly into Mycroft. She let a small whimper escape.

“ _Yes_ ,” John cried as Mycroft’s tongue pressed into her. It was warm and wet and soft and cleverly tasting her. John thought of cold Afghan nights and cold English forests and a cold army bedsit. Her body shivered and shivered, and she screamed Mycroft’s name. 

When John awoke again, daylight was streaming in the room. There was a solid warm weight at her back. _Who…?_

“Please! She’s at least a half stone heavier!” Sherlock huffed in disgust from her perch across the room. She was fully-clothed, sitting on the top of a chair pushed next to the window sill, watching the streets below.

“Coffee?” Sherlock nodded to a steaming cup on the bedside table. “It’s my own special blend,” she gave her a saccharine smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter comes from entanglednow’s ‘Armistice’, which was the inspiration for the entire fic. The scene in that fic where John wakes up and isn’t sure who is in the bed with him and Sherlock makes a snide comment from the door has always impressed me. I tried to work backwards about what would need to happen to bring genderswapped versions to that point. 
> 
> As AUs go, you can’t go wrong with werewolves: the possessiveness and the mating and bonding and the body vs. mind tension. There are lots of great werewolf AUs, but ‘Beneath the Silver Moon’ by SailorChibi is a favorite. The last line was a throw-away to get in a nod to ‘Pentanedione, Damascenone, Furanone, Vanillin’ by peevee. I remember having a visceral reaction (not that kind) to that story the first time I read it. The kind where you say, “I hope this person makes some money doing this, because it is too damn good.”


	7. Epilogue

They fell into comfortable silence on the way back to Baker Street. John watched the bustle of London morning through the taxi window. In the reflection, she saw Sherlock glued to her mobile. 

Sherlock said, “So, with Mycroft. At the end. You must have been…. _BAFTA-worthy_.”

John kept looking out the window.

“As you said, there are some things your sister needn’t be privy to.”

“Indeed.”

“Sherlock, I faked orgasms for the better part of two decades, across three continents—with both sexes, mind you—and no one noticed or cared.” The ‘until you’ hung unspoken. 

“There are so very few people in the world _dedicated_ to the scientific method these days.”

John barked a laugh that was more air than sound.

Sherlock’s phone beeped, and she smiled.

“Case?”

“No. Fine hosiery sale.” She turned the phone so that John could read the screen. John squinted at the fine print.

“Is that the place with the fitting rooms that…”

“Yes.” Sherlock drew out the sibilant and batted her eyelashes. 

“Alright. Here are my terms. One, a very hot shower…

“Agreed. I intend to scrub every trace of my sister from your person.” 

The cab pulled up to Baker Street. Sherlock got out and unlocked the door while John paid the driver.

“Two, a nice fry up…” 

Sherlock held the door open for John, and she passed through the entrance, making her way up the stairs. Sherlock followed after.

“…just tea for me, thanks….” 

John stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around. With Sherlock still on a lower step, they were the same height. John cupped Sherlock’s head in her hands and leaned in.

“...and then we can go _shopping_.”

Sherlock’s lips met hers.

“Brilliant!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
